


We Won’t Be Back Before It’s Christmas Day

by DesireeArmfeldt



Series: I Have to Go Out Tonight [3]
Category: due South
Genre: Angst, Clubbing, Established Relationship, Friendship, Hope, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Third Person Limited, Pre-Slash, Prompt Fic, Public Nudity, Public Sex, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-14
Updated: 2012-06-14
Packaged: 2017-11-07 18:08:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/433905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesireeArmfeldt/pseuds/DesireeArmfeldt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part 3 (and final) in a series of fics based on a series of prompts from helens78 to ds-kinkmeme.</p><p>The prompt was: due South, F/K or F/V or F/K/V, voyeurism -- Kowalski, Vecchio, or both finds out that Fraser goes out to clubs to get things he doesn't think he can have in "real life". He/they watch, and when Fraser spots him/them watching, he puts on a major show for his/their benefit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Won’t Be Back Before It’s Christmas Day

The nightclub’s music is so loud that Fraser barely hears it with his ears; he feels it directly in his bones and muscles.  The beat inhabits him.  It picks him up and throws him about in this writhing sea of heat and color and human bodies.  He allows it to have its way with him: after all, that is part of what he is here for.

 

Fraser dances, limbs loose and powerful, head thrown back to howl at the invisible moon.

 

(Ray Kowalski likes to tease Fraser about his inability to dance— _Yeah, okay, you know the steps, but you’re missing the point!  It’s about rhythm, it’s about_ soul _!_   He would be shocked to see Fraser become one with the music.  He would be beyond shocked to see Fraser _abandoned_ as he is now—to the beat, to the fire in the blood, to the sex in the air, to the longing that cracks open all these men and spills their guts to mingle under the flashing lights.  But Ray isn’t here.  Fraser doesn’t think about Ray, here, nor anyone else who knows him by his name.) 

 

Fraser moves alone, unknown, among this press of nameless men who hold out their arms to draw him in.  Their easy touches revive him, like the return of the Arctic sun after the dark of winter.  The heat of their lust answers his own heat, igniting him like a flare against the night sky. __

Fraser dances alone, but not for long.

 

Out of the general press of bodies, a slender young man claims space in front of Fraser and begins to move in sync with him.  Fraser dances forward with a smile, accepting the invitation.  The young man is androgynously beautiful, with large, dark eyes and dark, straight hair worn loose to his shoulders ( _mane of dark, tangled curls. . .No!)._   His supple body is bare from the waist up; a sheen of sweat glistens on his skin.  His teeth flash brightly when he smiles.  He moves well: graceful and athletic, with a real feeling for the music ( _two blond heads close together, two bodies moving so naturally together—Stop it!)._

 

Fraser bares his teeth and stretches out his hand to touch his new partner.  Hot skin under his hand, so good to feel another person’s heat, to skip the words and the wondering and communicate directly, in the intuitive language spoken between bodies.

 

The music speeds up, and with it, their movements.  Closer together, now, sharing heat across a few finger-breadths of space.  His partner’s hair lashes Fraser across the face—the barest of silken stings—Fraser gasps, then laughs, a bright sound that rings out through the blaring music.

 

Strange, to feel such raw joy, in such a place.  The nightclub is a distillation of everything harsh and alien about Chicago: lights too bright and fast and colored; ear-crushing noise; throngs of people too close together; too many scents and sounds and _feelings_ pressing in relentlessly.  Oppressive—Fraser is oppressed by Chicago.  He spends most of his life holding it at bay, fighting for moments of quiet and calm, shoring up the walls of his soul against all attackers.  But here, enclosed within these walls, shut in with all of the loud noisy messy _life_. . .somehow, he is released.  The boundaries of his self—his daytime self, his real-world self—dissolve like a soap bubble, and Fraser becomes music and skin and sweat and movement and lust and teeth and sometimes, sometimes, he almost loses himself completely (almost finds himself complete), it’s almost _enough_. . .

 

His hands slide over slick skin.  He explores the man’s back, the vestigial wings of his shoulderblades, the fine curves of his biceps.  An ink-snake winds its way up one of the man’s arms, and Fraser’s fingers trace its path.  Laughing, the young man pulls in even closer to Fraser, rubbing his groin against Fraser’s, sending a jolt of longing through him.

 

 _Yes._   He likes this stranger: the way he moves, the way he smiles ( _bashful eyelids lowered, shy grin that never means what you want—No._ ).  He wants to explore him, to hear what secrets his body has to tell.  Fraser wraps the young man in his arms and bends down to kiss him, sweetly at first, but then harder and more fiercely as the mouth under his demands more. 

 

Fraser raises his head to take a breath and shake the sweat from his hair—and something in his peripheral vision catches his attention, just a flash, so quick he has no idea what he saw.  He’s not in any way on duty here, entirely the opposite; and he’s fairly sure he’s in no immediate danger.  But the instinct to notice, to know, is too strong to ignore, so he looks.  Over his shorter partner’s shoulder, he scans the crowd, peers into the murky shadows beyond the dancefloor—

 

Sees Ray Kowalski standing by the bar.

 

For one moment he thinks it’s a coincidence.  Ray has a history of coming to clubs like this one; Ray is here for his own reasons which have nothing to do with Fraser.  (Although he can hardly bear the thought of Ray here, behind his lover’s back, searching hungry-eyed for. . .what?)  But then, in the next moment, he sees Ray Vecchio standing beside Ray.  Ray Vecchio has no nightclubbing in his past.  Ray Vecchio wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like this.

 

And both of them are looking straight at Fraser.

 

The world stops briefly dead, like the moment a bomb explodes.

 

Then the noise and heat and crowd and light assault his senses as the world rains down in fragments.  Emotions rip through him like shrapnel, shredding his thoughts into disconnected fragments— _never again—dare to hunt me—broken dirty ruined—the one thing I found for myself—gone stolen shattered—nothing, never—need, I need—don’t see me—fists teeth blood—touch me lick me bite me—lost empty—why?—run, hide—leave me alone—have each other—back in my cage—do this to me?—no no no—over, all over now, all over now. . ._  Rational, human thought is beyond him:he is a tornado, a self-consuming flame, a wolf-howl splitting the empty night.  __

Out of the maelstrom, a single coherent thought finally forms: _They want an eyeful?  Fine, I’ll give them one._

 

The words are cold lead in his belly, molten lead in his groin.

 

Trembling, Fraser buries his nose in his partner’s hair, then lowers his head and licks a slow, teasing stripe from the man’s ear down his neck and along the ridge of his shoulder.

 

“You that impatient?” the man murmurs in Fraser’s ear.  “Or you just get a kick out of showing off?”

 

“You mind?”  Fraser forces the words out.  The man’s hands grip his ass and pull him closer, so that his erection rubs up against an answering bulge in the other man’s crotch.

 

“If I did, you’d know.”  He slips a hand down the back of Fraser’s jeans, one long finger tracing a tingling path into the cleft of his ass, jerking a groan from Fraser as his whole body twitches.

 

Behind him, someone laughs.  Someone else gives a wolf whistle, which is followed by more laughter and some clapping.

 

“Fuckers,” chuckles the young man.  “Jealous.”

 

“We’ll give them a show?”  Fraser just barely manages to turn it into a question, snarled through bared teeth.  But the beautiful young man grins back at him, something of the animal in his smile, too.  Undulating to the throb of the music, he slides his hands under Fraser’s tank top.  Fraser hisses at the brush of those damp fingers against his nipples.  The man’s grin broadens; the caress becomes a sharp pinch that sends a shock of pleasure through Fraser’s body.  He grabs the back of the man’s head, buries his fingers in his damp hair, and pulls him in for a deep kiss.  The man’s mouth draws in Fraser’s insistent tongue, while his hands tug Fraser’s shirt over his head.

 

Fraser releases him, and the shirt goes flying as the man starts to dance again, arms over his head, hips thrusting, a blatant display of his fine young body.  Fraser watches, running his hands over his own bare skin, and then holds out his hands in invitation.

 

The young man dances a few steps backward, then takes a running jump into Fraser’s arms, locking his legs around Fraser’s waist.  Fraser runs his palms up the man’s back, and the man gives his weight into Fraser’s hands as he arches backwards, his head towards the floor, the length of his lean torso on display.

 

They’re the center of attention now.  Half the dancers have stopped to watch this exhibition; other men gawk from nearby tables.  On the periphery, Ray and Ray stare openly, standing side by side, not touching each other.

 

Fraser’s whole body shudders.  His penis throbs inside his too-tight jeans, straining hopelessly for contact with the warm ass above it.  Dizzy, desperate, he pulls his partner back up into a rough embrace and bites down on his shoulder.  The man jerks and swears, but not in anger – he clutches Fraser tighter and returns the bite in kind.  As Fraser hisses his appreciation, the young man slides down Fraser’s body.  He ends up kneeling at Fraser’s feet, where he unbuttons Fraser’s jeans and eases them down.  Fraser’s penis twitches at the release; the man laughs and kisses it through the rough cotton of Fraser’s briefs.  Groaning, Fraser threads his fingers through that long, soft hair and kicks off his shoes.  The man helps him step out of his jeans, all the while continuing to mouth Fraser through his underwear.

 

The lights are hot on Fraser’s bare skin; the air is stifling, barely stirred by the breath of a roomful of men.  The young man is on his feet again, kissing Fraser all over, licking, nibbling.  Fraser is a melting candle; every touch of the man’s lips leaves a soft dent in his flesh.  Delicate fingers slide into his underwear and tease him into a frenzy.  His nails rake his partner’s back; his teeth leave marks in smooth skin.  His growls are answered with soft moans that vibrate through his bones like the thumping bassline of the music.

 

And finally—finally—the rising, urgent pleasure dissolves him, and there are no thoughts at all, only sensations that consume him.

 

But in the end, he finds himself back in his brain, back in his body, naked on a nightclub dancefloor, damp with sweat and semen, pinned and catalogued by scores of staring eyes.  The room might as well be empty, though, because Ray’s eyes, and Ray’s, burn into his from across the room, a connection like a laser, blinding him to everything else.

 

A hand on his shoulder; a voice saying something.  He knows he ought to turn to the stranger who shared this bit of exhibitionism with him.  Smile at him, thank him, share. . .something.  Anything less would be heartless.  But Fraser cannot look away from Ray and Ray.

 

Now they’re moving.  Out of the shadows, into the colored glare.  Toward him.

 

No one else moves, except to get out of their way.  The whole club must be watching, now.  It’s strangely quiet—the music has shut off, he realizes.  Apparently, someone doesn’t want this dramatic moment drowned out.

 

Ray and Ray step onto the dancefloor and stop, not quite close enough to touch.  Closed faces, closed-off bodies.  Burning eyes.

 

The young man beside him—Fraser will never even know his name—looks at Ray and Ray, then looks at Fraser for a cue.  But Fraser can’t give him anything; he just stands there frozen, shaking, unable to move or speak. 

 

Ray Kowalski squares off at the young man, fists balled.  The young man is smaller and less muscular than Ray, but he holds his ground, half-dressed, his unfastened pants falling off his hips, returning Ray’s glare and not giving an inch.  Fraser’s belly clenches in anticipation of the first punch (though it doesn’t matter, nothing matters now). 

 

But Ray doesn’t move, and then Ray Vecchio says to the young man, “Look, I’m real sorry, but you might want to step aside now.”  There’s no bluster in his voice, no threat either; he actually does look sorry.

 

The young man looks at Fraser again, checking in.  The message in his eyes is clear: he’s ready to fight both Rays if Fraser needs defending.  Fraser’s throat closes and his eyes sting.  But he meets the man’s eyes and he manages to nod—at least he thinks he does.  He must have made some sort of signal, anyway, because the man shrugs, frowns, turns away from Fraser, and walks into the onlooking crowd.

 

Leaving Fraser standing by himself, stark naked, facing Ray and Ray. 

 

He can’t meet their eyes.  The defiant rage has drained from him, leaving only shame and despair behind.  Whatever they do now, they have already destroyed him, like the doubting bride shining her light on her sleeping husband’s secret face, blackening his shirt with drops of tallow, exiling him from love.  Their eyes have brought Benton Fraser into this world where he never belonged, and now he can never come here again.  Never look, never touch, never _hope. . ._

 

“Is there something you want to tell us?” asks Ray Vecchio, his voice low and gentle.

 

Fraser shakes his head.  His whole body is shivering feverishly, he’s going to splinter.

 

Ray Kowalski grabs Fraser roughly by the shoulders.  His expressive mouth twists, and for an instant Fraser expects Ray to spit in his face.  But Ray’s own face is wide open now, his emotions visible like raw wounds, and that’s not disgust under the rage, it’s anguish, and something else that Fraser cannot dare to name, even in the shelter of his own thoughts.  Ray stares wordlessly into his eyes; Ray’s hands on Fraser’s shoulders are shaking as badly as Fraser himself is shaking—Ray is moments from falling to pieces, Fraser realizes, and that knowledge, finally, shatters him.  He wraps his arms around Ray, crushes him close as Ray breaks into silent, heaving sobs.  Fraser buries his face in Ray’s shoulder, soaking it with his own tears.

 

A hand touches his shoulder. 

 

“Hey.  Room for me?” asks Ray Vecchio.

 

Fraser raises his head and looks into his old friend’s eyes.  No anger there, real or assumed.  None of the other Ray’s jagged edges, but the same concern, the same pain, the same depth of feeling Fraser can’t bear to look on.

 

Ray lays a gentle hand on Fraser’s cheek; his thumb brushes Fraser’s tears away.  The gesture is more intimate than the thousand ways in which Ray has touched him before.  A moan spills unbidden from Fraser’s mouth.

 

Ray’s eyes go wide; Ray Kowalski’s head comes up.

 

“If you need this,” murmurs Ray Vecchio, tilting his head sideways to indicate the nightclub and all it stands for.  “If this is what you need to make you happy. . .If this is really you. . .just tell us, Benny.”

 

It is what he needs and not nearly enough; it both feeds and consumes him.  There is nothing false about the self he is within these walls, except that it exists nowhere else—cannot, _must not_ exist anywhere else—but what has been seen cannot be un-seen, and what is known, by these two men who know him better than anyone in the world, and not at all. . .

 

“Fraser.”  Ray Kowalski’s voice is a ruined whisper.  His arms do not loosen their hold on Fraser as he inclines his head, closing the last few centimeters between his mouth and Fraser’s.

 

The kiss is sweet and soft, but it pulls another moan from Fraser.  He feels as if all the air has been driven from his lungs.  His vision swims, his knees start to buckle—but Ray’s embrace supports him, and Ray Vecchio’s palm lands warm on his bare back.  Ray’s lips release his, and Fraser takes a breath.  It feels like the first breath after a long submersion.  It feels easy.

 

Ray is watching his face.  Appraising. 

 

“Better?” he asks.

 

“Yes.”  The word feels strange in Fraser’s mouth, as if he hasn’t spoken for years and has almost forgotten how.  “But. . .”

 

Ray’s eyes turn to Ray Vecchio’s face; Fraser follows his look.  Ray Vecchio’s eyes are half-hooded, wary but hopeful.  A slight change in pressure from Ray Kowalski’s arms turns Fraser’s body just slightly towards Ray Vecchio.

 

“Ray. . . ?” Fraser whispers.  He tilts his head and Ray’s lips are there to meet his.  Ray sighs and slides his hand around Fraser’s back to grip him more firmly.  Fraser removes one hand from Ray Kowalski so that he can encircle Ray Vecchio; Ray does the same, his hand meeting Fraser’s on Ray’s back.

 

“Aw, _Benny,_ ” says Ray Vecchio when their lips separate. 

 

Fraser looks dizzily from Ray to Ray and back.  He can’t think; doesn’t dare think; if he breathes, reality will return, and he may not survive that.

 

Ray and Ray exchange a long look, at the end of which, Ray Vecchio nods and Ray Kowalski dips his forehead briefly to touch Ray’s before laying his head on Fraser’s shoulder.

 

“We’ll make this right,” says Ray Vecchio.  “I promise you.”

 

Ray Kowalski is the one who breaks from the embrace first.  He kneels to collect Fraser’s scattered garments, while Ray Vecchio drapes his jacket over Fraser’s shoulders.  There are still quite a lot of people staring at the three of them, Fraser realizes, but he doesn’t care.  Ray Vecchio’s hands rest protectively on Fraser’s shoulders, and Ray Kowalski kneels at his feet, looking up at him with an intensity that could melt steel, his hands full of Fraser’s clothing. 

 

Fraser shivers, waiting for them to take his hands and lead him out into the waking world.


End file.
